


Over Again

by Rycolfan (Snarryeyes)



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snarryeyes/pseuds/Rycolfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan suffers a day from hell and, unfortunately for him, it’s not going anywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over Again

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2013 Whose-A-Thon on Livejournal, using this prompt: 'Stuck in the same day repeating itself.' So basically it's Groundhog Day, Whose Line style.
> 
> This is a work of fiction. No offense is intended to those portrayed herein.

Ryan groans. Having managed to block out the tendrils of sunlight streaming through his window by resolutely turning over, the overly loud and repetitive trill of his phone is proving harder to ignore. He slides the pillow over his head, cursing whoever is ringing him at such an ungodly hour _and_ when he has the world’s biggest hangover. 

The pillow muffles the sound to an extent, but not enough to suppress the high-pitched beep as it goes to messages and then the familiar timbre that follows. Almost against his will, Ryan relaxes his grip on the pillow to allow Colin’s words to reach him as they echo along the corridor and into his bedroom.

“Hey, Ry, it’s me… obviously. I guess you’re not around.” There’s a pause, then a breath expelled. “I’m on my way to the airport and I just wanted to say goodbye. You left the party last night before I got a chance to talk to you properly, and I didn’t want to leave without… well, you know.” He pauses again and the silence stretches, prompting Ryan to lift his head ever so slightly. Still, he only just catches Colin’s next few words, spoken softly as if they’re more to himself than to Ryan. “I wish you were there.” 

Ryan clamps down on the urge to dash to pick up the phone, likewise stamping on the guilt that is threatening to creep into his belly. This is for the best.

“Goodbye, Ryan.”

He listens to the soft click as the line goes dead and then sinks back onto the bed, yanking the sheet up and over him.

 

His phone is ringing again, closer this time, dragging him out of sleep more quickly. How can it be closer? No, wait, the tone is different—higher. It’s his cell, which isn’t so easy to ignore seeing as it’s sat right next to him on the bedside table, and it’s harder to excuse the damned person on the other end. 

It stops ringing only to cheerfully beep, informing him of a message, and, with a growl of irritation, Ryan turns over and makes a grab for it. As he does so, he’s struck by the thought that it could be Colin trying to reach him again and his delicate stomach lurches unpleasantly. But it’s Jeff’s name displayed on the lit screen: one missed call and one text message. Ryan scrolls to the message.

April 23, 2001, 10:04am. 

_Are you alive?_

Ryan’s about to send a caustic reply when Jeff rings again; he jabs a button to accept the call.

“What do you want?”

“It’s ten thirty.” It seems Jeff is bypassing pleasantries, too. 

“You get a job as a talking clock or something?” Ryan’s eyes are closed again, his forefinger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose. “I hope the pay’s good.”

“You were supposed to meet me at the club at ten, wise-ass. Did you forget?”

“No,” Ryan lies, dragging himself up to a sitting position. When the hell had he agreed to a game of golf this morning? Oh yeah, right around the fourth scotch last night. And he’d placed a healthy bet on winning it, too. Fuck.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a terrible liar when you’re hung over?” Jeff replies, and Ryan can picture the smirk on his face—the smirk he always gets when he has the upper hand and knows it. Ryan would normally whip out a suitable retort to wipe that smirk right off again but his brain is having trouble accessing appropriate vocabulary. He gives up, settling on ignoring the question completely.

“I’m getting ready now. I’ll be there in fifteen.” Ryan drags his legs out of bed as he speaks and then attempts to stand, immediately regretting it. He flops back down to sit on the edge of the bed, simultaneously trying to regain his vision and clamp down on the bile rising up into his throat. 

“Make that twenty.”

~*~*~

 

Jeff’s waiting for him, casually leaning against the cart he’s procured, in brightly colored golfing clothes that would look ridiculous on anyone but him—Ryan has gone for light brown pants and a white cotton shirt; infinitely preferable. Jeff is also looking far more cheerful than he has any right to be, considering he drank the same amount as Ryan the night before, and Ryan tells him as much.

“Yes, but I’m over a decade younger,” Jeff says with a shit-eating grin.

Ryan’s response is to scowl more deeply, which would have been more effective had it not been for the sunglasses and baseball cap covering a large proportion of his face. He dumps his bag of clubs in the cart and slides into the passenger seat, pulling his cap down a little further. “Just drive, Davis.”

It’s not until the eleventh hole, when against all expectations Ryan is managing to stay a little ahead of his opponent even in the face of his still quite substantial hangover, that the conversation turns in an unwelcome direction. Ryan focuses on the area his ball has landed, tuning out Jeff’s voice and everything to do with Whose Line, and it’s not until he’s found it—several feet into the rough—that he notices Jeff’s expectant expression and realizes there must have been a question in there somewhere.

“Huh?”

“Colin,” Jeff repeats, making Ryan’s stomach lurch again and threaten another rebellion. “Did you see him before you left last night? He was looking for you.”

Part of Ryan thinks Jeff might be bringing this up to throw him off his game. He plucks a wedge from his golf bag, trying to keep his expression and tone neutral. “No, I didn’t.”

Jeff allows him the time to get into position and carefully make his shot, knocking the ball back onto the green in an imperfect but satisfactory shot. However, Ryan’s feeling of triumph is almost immediately stamped upon.

“You two have a fight or something?”

God damn it, he was not having this conversation—not in the middle of a game and definitely not with a blinding hangover. Jeff’s watching him, head tilted slightly to one side as he leans on his seven-iron.

“We’re fine,” Ryan replies stiffly, stepping back onto the green.

“Which only goes to prove what I said earlier.” 

When Ryan finally caves and looks back at him, challenging him to continue, Jeff shrugs. 

“You’re a terrible liar when you’re hung over.”

~*~*~

 

Greg, of course, is a little more succinct. 

“You’re a fucking idiot, man.”

Ryan adjusts his grip on his cell, casting a wary glance at the elderly couple sitting nearest him in the coffee shop—a quaint little place that has gained a big reputation over the last couple of years for serving the best coffee downtown. Ryan’s eyes flick back to the window and the steady stream of traffic rattling past in both directions. He’s already regretting answering the call. 

“Greg, can we not do this now? I’ve got the headache from hell and I’ve just lost a hundred bucks to the improv and golf pro turned therapist Jeff Davis.”

“Too bad, hombre,” Greg says without an ounce of sympathy. “You brought this on yourself. Why in the name of Richard Simmons’ sparkly vest did you let him leave like that?”

There’s no need to clarify which ‘him’ Greg is referring to. “I had my reasons.”

“Yeah, stupid fucking reasons.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Greg,” Ryan snaps. “It was a sinking ship, okay? There’s no point trying to hold onto something that can’t last.” The old couple is staring at him now but he doesn’t care. He glares at them in lieu of Greg.

“Man, you’ve been watching too much Oprah.” Greg sighs heavily down the phone. “Look, I’m not going to pretend I know exactly what’s gone on between you two, but I do know there’s love there—real love, none of that I love him like a brother shit. And don’t deny it, Stiles. You may have been treating him like a fucking leper the last few days but that much is still abundantly clear.”

“Yeah, well love doesn’t solve everything.”

“Tell that to John Lennon,” Greg shoots back. “Look, my advice to you? Don’t leave it like this. You’ll regret it.”

“Wow, I didn’t realize there were so many therapists in the improv world,” Ryan says dryly. He pulls his coffee towards him, sloshing some over the side to leave a dark stain on the white table. “I suggest you stick to comedy. You’re not half-bad at that.”

“Coming from the great and mighty Ryan Stiles, a compliment indeed,” Greg says easily, refusing to bow so much as an inch to Ryan’s bad mood. “But, alas, my substantial talents are currently needed elsewhere. Think about what I said.”

The call ends abruptly, severing the retort that Ryan was about to unleash, leaving him utterly unsatisfied. Worse, in the absence of Greg’s voice, his ears are assaulted with the appalling strains of Michael Bolton coming from the radio behind the counter; a love song, no less. He contemplates throwing his cell at the offending appliance but that would likely get him thrown out. So he tosses it back down onto the table instead and grabs more sugar, seriously considering death by hyperglycemia as a viable alternative. 

At least the old couple has gone back to their coffees and cake, although the barista is throwing him odd looks in-between serving customers. Ryan slides his sunglasses back on and takes a sip of coffee, wondering why he’d agreed to meet his agent here and if the decent coffee is really worth the price.

He’s on his second cup and fourth Tylenol by the time Steve arrives, breezing in with a fleeting apology that’s about as sincere as a politician’s election pledge. It’s strangely comforting, though, that in the crazy fucked up make-believe world of Hollywood, Ryan’s short, slightly over-weight agent never seems to change. They go through his schedule for the next couple of weeks, and although Ryan’s not really paying as much attention as he should be, he picks up the basics—a few not very important meetings and a DCS read-through for the opening episode of the new season. 

Ryan knows that one of those meetings is with the Whose Line executives and it’s one he can do without. He doesn’t need to be officially told that they’re pulling the plug, that the previous night’s wrap party was the very last. He knows. They all do. Drew, at least, can always be counted upon to forego the bullshit. It’s now common knowledge among the cast and crew that they won’t be coming back, that the studio has enough material for a couple of extra seasons on the house and then it’s lights out for good.

Ryan barely registers the departure of his agent but he’s brought sharply back to reality a moment later when blazing wet heat suddenly blooms across his arm. His whole body jerks, making the empty cups on the table jump in unison, and then there’s an extremely apologetic waitress in his face, dabbing fruitlessly at a stain that will never come out. Ryan disengages himself from her with as much civility as he can muster and gets out of there, back to the relative safety of his car where he can strip his shirt off and pull on an old jacket he has slung on the back seat since forever. Since—he’s caught off guard by a memory that surfaces when a slight breeze lifts the scent from its folds, one of salt and sand and everything that encompasses that night on the beach. 

He doesn’t remember much of the events that led up to it, or much that happened afterwards, but he can vividly recall the feel of cool sand around his bare toes as they sat together under the boardwalk, his jacket around Colin’s shoulders looking like it belonged there. More than slightly drunk, they’d shared his last cigarette in the deep shadows cast by the lights above and listened to the sound of the surf breaking beyond where any light could reach. And when the cigarette was down to the smallest stub, Colin had casually plucked it from his lips and sealed his own over them, stealing the last of his hit and the breath from his lungs.

Ryan shakes off the memory and uncurls the fingers that had seemingly curled around the soft folds of material of their own accord. There’s a woman staring at him from a car parked across the street. Ryan slides his key into the ignition and drives away before she decides that he really is who she thinks he is.

~*~*~

 

It’s well known that traffic in LA can be a bitch. But what’s most aggravating to Ryan is that no two days and no two journeys are the same—the same route can take ten minutes one day and three hours the next, thus making every drive a game of luck. 

And luck is certainly not on his side today. He laments this fact as he sits bumper to bumper with the car in front on the 101, going nowhere fast.

He flicks the air con up a notch and settles back in his seat, drumming an unsteady rhythm on the wheel with his fingers. He’s disregarded the idea of putting the radio on; his head is still too fragile, plus he’s not too sure it would be a friendly companion after the Michael Bolton incident earlier. He should put a supply of decent music in the car like he’s always meant to.

_“You could fit a lot of classic rock in your glove compartment, Ry. You’d never have to listen to hip hop again.”_

Ryan shakes his head as if trying to rid himself of a wayward fly, directing his attention to the car in front and the bumper sticker that reads _I still miss my ex-wife but my aim is improving_. He wonders how high the divorce rate is in LA. Higher than Washington State, he’s willing to bet.

“Hey! Stop!”

A motorbike speeds past Ryan’s car as he turns to see the cause of the commotion—a well-dressed woman in a red convertible a few cars back and to the right is shouting after the bike, the rider of which has apparently helped himself to her purse on his way past.

Just another day in LA.

The only new message waiting for him when he finally gets home is from Drew, reminding him about some TV awards nomination party they were supposed to be attending for DCS. Ryan would much rather stay in and nurse the remains of his hangover, but he had promised. So he tosses his coffee stained shirt into the laundry hamper and heads for the shower, wondering if this day can get any longer and pondering all the ways he can possibly fuck it up even more.

~*~*~

 

“You came!”

“I said I would, didn’t I?” Ryan says a little gruffly, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing server. Then he thinks better of it and scans the room for something less likely to cause another day like this one. 

“Yeah,” Drew replies, lowering his voice, “but I didn’t know if you would after… you know…”

Catching on to Drew’s meaning, Ryan rounds on him. “Christ, is there anyone he didn’t talk to?”

“He didn’t say anything,” Drew says, hands raised defensively. “Didn’t have to. Neither do you,” he adds pointedly.

“Meaning?”

“You look like hell.” 

“That’s called a hangover.”

“Deny it all you want but we both know the truth.”

Just as Ryan is fervently wishing he’d stayed at home—fuck the nomination—someone he vaguely recognizes but doesn’t know appears at Drew’s side to greet him and, spying an exit strategy, Ryan melts into the crowd behind him. Moving through the mass of bodies towards the far side of the room and relative safety, he realizes he’s still holding the glass of champagne and knocks it back. 

One can’t hurt.

Many hours later, Ryan falls into bed, thankfully not inebriated but bone weary. He wants nothing more than to sleep for a week; maybe he will. As his mind empties in readiness for sleep, thoughts of Colin cling on a little longer. Their roots run deeper. Scattered memories play unbidden like an unfolding film reel and, amongst the flow, his imagination conjures an image of Colin’s face as he left that final message on Ryan’s machine. Something kicks in at that point, a self-preservation instinct that shuts that traitorous part of his mind down. Still, when sleep comes, he’s helpless to prevent that face from haunting his dreams.

~*~*~

 

When his phone wakes him again early the next morning, Ryan lets out a groan of frustration, covers his ears and stubbornly ignores it. He doesn’t care who it is this time—he’s disowning all of his friends and having the damn thing disconnected; just as soon as he’s slept ten more hours and gotten rid of this infernal headache. 

Minutes—hours?—later his cell starts ringing nearby. Ryan swears loudly and cracks an eye open to glare at the offending piece of worthless technology cheerfully vibrating its way across his bedside table. The fact that it’s there is strange in itself; he could have sworn he left it on the table by the door as he came in last night. Technology has some kind of vendetta against him.

When it becomes apparent that whoever’s calling isn’t going to give up, Ryan snatches up the phone.

“What?!”

“It’s ten thirty.”

Ryan slumps back against his pillow. “Jeff, I wasn’t serious about the whole talking clock thing. Plus, I’m really fucking tired.”

“Huh? Whatever, dude. You were supposed to meet me at the club at ten this morning. Did you forget?”

Ryan screws up his face, trying to make sense of the conversation—which is difficult when he’s only just woken up and his head feels like a marching band has taken up permanent residence. He must be coming down with something; it wasn’t as though he’d drunk that much last night. What little remains in his stomach rolls around uneasily as he sits up a little. 

“Didn’t we do that yesterday?”

“No, it was the last day of filming yesterday,” Jeff says slowly, patiently. “Remember?” Ryan hears a snort into the speaker. “Geez, you must be really hung over. Don’t worry, I promise I’ll take it easy on you. See you soon!”

“Wha—“

But the call has disconnected. Ryan takes the phone from his ear and stares at it, his brain still frantically trying to catch up. It’s then that he sees the notification of a text message. He opens it up and the words _Are you alive?_ appear on the screen. 

That could just be a fluke—or Jeff’s idea of a dumb joke—but Ryan’s eyes flick up to the date stamped on the message: 

April 23, 2001, 10:04am.

Ryan swears, tossing his cell onto the bed—piece of garbage; he’s only had it a year, if that—and reaches for the TV remote. Cell phones may be unreliable but he can depend on CNN to set things straight. He squints at the screen, ignoring the upsurge in pain from his head.

Okay, so the top story about hostages being freed somewhere in the Middle East is remarkably similar to something he caught on the news yesterday but the date is… 

Fuck it.

Ryan gets up and staggers out of the bedroom to try the other television, grasping at some vain notion that it’ll make everything alright; he feels an irrational betrayal when it doesn’t. Then he turns and sees the message light on his house phone blinking. Ryan thinks for a minute that the message will somehow explain everything—that someone will then jump out with a camera crew—but then his brain finally catches up and he remembers. He knows exactly who it will be. 

Nevertheless, he reaches out to press the button, needing to be sure. He’s duly notified that the message was received that morning at 7:23am.

“Hey, Ry, it’s me… obviously. I guess you’re not around.” Ryan stands and stares at the machine, remembering, with surprising clarity considering his double hangover, the way he had reluctantly listened in bed the previous morning. “I’m on my way to the airport and I just wanted to say goodbye. You left the party last night before I got a chance to talk to you properly, and I didn’t want to leave without… well, you know.” Ryan’s finger hovers over the stop button but he can’t quite bring himself to press it, feeling somehow like he deserves this torment. “I wish you were there… Goodbye, Ryan.”

Ryan remains where he is, swaying slightly as the room slowly spins, trying to make any kind of sense of the situation. There had to be a logical explanation… a dream or something. Yes, the whole thing was a product of his alcohol-induced mind. It had to be. Either that or he’s turning into some kind of superhero who can see the future before it happens. Ryan suppresses the laughter that bubbles up at the thought; it would hurt his head too much to release it.

He pops a couple of Tylenol and heads for the shower, noting as he does so that his pristine, stain-free shirt is waiting for him on the door.

~*~*~

 

Once again, Jeff’s leaning against the golf cart wearing the same horribly garish golf clothes as before. Ryan swears under his breath as he gets out of the car, his carefully constructed reasoning for the continuing weirdness slipping a notch. Okay then, if they’re going to do this again, he’s going to make damn sure he wins this time.

“Shut up,” he snaps before Jeff can get as much as a word out. It has no effect on Jeff’s grin which, if anything gets a little wider. Ryan dumps his clubs in the cart and tells him to drive. 

For a while Ryan’s determination to win prevails over his groggy head and by the time they reach the tenth hole, he’s built up a reasonable lead—more than his previous amount from the day before that, well, wasn’t. He stops that train of thought before it derails and worsens his headache. 

As they play the eleventh, Ryan remembers that this is where things started to go awry and his concentration sharpens in readiness. He’s so focused on his game, and the ball has landed, that he misses what Jeff says.

“Huh?”

“Colin,” Jeff repeats, and Ryan’s hit by that same wave of discomfort, this time tinted with déjà vu. “Did you see him last night? He was looking for you.”

Ryan looks for his ball in the rough and, sure enough, it’s in near enough the same place again, silently mocking him. “No, I didn’t,” he grinds out, snatching his wedge from the bag. His shot is shoddy at best and only just delivers the ball back onto the green.

“You two—“

“No, we didn’t have a fight. Look, can we not do this again?”

Jeff’s eyebrows fly skywards. “Again?”

“Never mind,” Ryan says irritably. Win or lose, he suddenly wants this game finished. “Just take it from me, we’re fine.” As he steps up to his ball, he can feel Jeff’s eyes boring into the back of him.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a terrible liar when you’re hung over?” he hears Jeff ask after a moment, his tone neither amused nor accusatory this time but the hint of disappointment cuts far deeper.

Ryan keeps his eyes on the ball, hands clenching around the cool metal of his putter. 

“Yeah. They have.”

~*~*~

 

Just after he gets in the car, having once again lost the game and handed over yet another hundred bucks to Jeff, Ryan receives a text from his agent reminding him about their meeting at one and his mood sours further. He considers asking to move the meeting to his home but that’s a thirty minute drive away at least and, besides, he really does need a good cup of coffee. So he taps out a brief acknowledgement, throws his phone onto the passenger seat—swapping it for the half-empty pack of Marlboro beside it—and shifts into reverse. 

He sits at a different table this time, one further back from the counter—and most importantly the radio—and ignores Greg when he calls. This is easy to do since he had the foresight to put his cell on silent. It’s a small but significant victory over whatever force it is that’s landed him in this situation. Thus he’s in a mildly improved frame of mind when his agent arrives. He doesn’t dwell on the fact the Steve’s in the same suit as before, slightly creased from sitting in a hot car, top button undone in reluctant concession to the considerable heat. No, Ryan’s decided that dwelling on such things is only detrimental to his hangover. Instead he sits back and enjoys his coffee, throwing his agent the odd murmur or nod without having to pay any attention, preserving what’s left of his higher brain function.

“Okay, so I’ll let you know if I hear anything about that new project,” Steve says, pushing his empty coffee cup away and reaching for his cell—a sure sign that he already has his mind on the next meeting in his schedule. “Don’t forget Friday.”

Ryan executes a lazy salute and watches Steve walk out the door, takes the time to savor his last few mouthfuls of coffee while considering whether this might be an improvement on the previous day after all. Then he gets up and collides with a waitress—the same waitress—and gasps as hot liquid hits his arm. Again. 

The resulting curse has less to do with the coffee and everything to do with the shattering of his feeble blossoming of hope that this day can be anything other than hell. And apparently he has to go through every part of this charade, right down to the coffee stain spreading across his shirt. The fretful young waitress is once again gushing apologies and it occurs to Ryan that her day isn’t going much better than his, so he makes a conscious effort to rein his temper in and tells her not to worry about it. 

As soon as Ryan’s back in his car, he starts to undo his shirt buttons but his fingers pause when he catches sight of the jacket across the back seat in his rear-view mirror. He drives away with his shirt sleeves rolled up. 

~*~*~

 

He gets stuck in traffic again on his way home. Of course he does. His half-hearted attempt at a slightly different route makes no difference; he has to get on the highway at some point, and when he does he’s at a standstill in a matter of minutes. He ignores the bumper sticker shining brightly on the car in front, ignores the red convertible behind him and the purse snatcher that rides past within minutes. He just wants to get home, shut the day out; shut everything out. Then perhaps things can go back to how they’re supposed to be.

This time, Drew’s isn’t the only voicemail waiting for him when he gets home; it’s joined by a lengthy lecture from Greg on the merits of answering his cell and all the other reasons why he’s an idiot. It seems escaping it was not an option. 

Leaving the message to run its course, Ryan sinks onto his couch and lets his head fall back to rest against the soft cream cushion, his eyes slipping closed the moment it makes contact; he’s finding it hard to care about anything right now except the pain steadily building in his head again, overwhelming the Tylenol’s best efforts. He knows he has stronger painkillers lying somewhere in the bathroom cabinet—the surplus from a few months ago when his back had put him out of action for several days—but he can’t risk taking them on top of the Tylenol. With his luck right now, he’d wind up dead on his bathroom floor, his photo splashed across the news as the latest Hollywood celebrity to OD.

The machine finally lapses into silence. Ryan lays still for a while longer, contemplating matters, and then pulls his cell from his pocket and taps out a brief message.

That done he pushes up from the couch and staggers to the darkening bedroom where he collapses face down onto the messy tangle of sheets. This is what he should have done the first time around. He can’t bring himself to feel guilty for bailing on Drew, not when he’s technically already honored his word once and he wasn’t feeling up to it that time either. Ryan gingerly shifts into a more comfortable position and closes his eyes, clearing his mind of everything, focusing solely on the soft chirrup of crickets that drifts through the open window.

~*~*~

 

He has cause to regret his decision later that evening when Wayne shows up to check he hasn’t died—Drew’s idea of being a good friend. Wayne lives the closest but it’s clear he doesn’t want to be there, eying Ryan with something close to hostility the moment the door opens.

“You don’t look sick.”

This raises Ryan’s shackles immediately, although he doesn’t show it. He won’t give Wayne the satisfaction. 

“Well, you’re just going to have to take my word for it. What are you doing here?”

“Drew’s idea, not mine.” Wayne strolls past Ryan uninvited and looks around, his gaze coming to rest on the whisky still sitting on the table from a few days ago—no, actually only yesterday. “So what’s your plan?” he asks, picking up the bottle to examine the label. “Stay in and drink yourself into a coma?”

Ryan hasn’t moved an inch, the door still standing open. “I was thinking more of hot cocoa and an early night actually.”

Wayne snorts softly, replacing the bottle in its previous position. “You know, for some reason Drew was worried about you. I told him not to be. The only person you really care about is yourself.”

The reason for Wayne’s animosity becomes instantly, blazingly clear. Ryan’s jaw clenches involuntarily. “You’ve been talking to Colin.”

“No, I haven’t,” Wayne says with a mirthless humor lacing every syllable. “He wouldn’t say a word.” He looks up then, dark eyes boring into Ryan’s with a sudden smoldering anger. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

“Christ, when did this become everyone else’s business?” Ryan says, any last vestige of composure disintegrating. He slams the door and steps closer to Wayne, using his height to full advantage. “This is between me and Colin. I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“You think we don’t know what’s been going on?” Wayne counters. “We’ve lived and worked alongside you through this, all of us. Maybe I don’t have the right to demand answers, but I damn well have the right to be concerned for my friend.”

“So go pour your wisdom on him and leave me alone,” Ryan says, going back to the door and throwing it open.

Wayne shakes his head and slowly moves towards it. “Ryan Stiles; chews people up and then spits them out.” He looks up at Ryan’s face as he reaches the doorway, and instead of anger there’s now only pity. “Have a nice life, man.”

Ryan slams the door after him, not bothering to watch him go but he hears the sound of a car engine start a minute later and then fade into the distance. He shuts off the light, goes back to his bedroom, and attempts to seek solace in the comfort of sleep. But the darkness is now a chasm that holds only the hollow echo of happier times. 

~*~*~

 

_No. No. Fuck no._

These are Ryan's first thoughts upon waking the next morning to the sound of the phone. His thoughts become verbal once Colin’s voice filters down the hallway in what is, by now, a well known message that Ryan can almost recite word for word, but which still brings a fresh stab of pain and guilt like a wound torn back open. 

No, this wasn’t happening and he did not have this goddamn hangover again. Except he did. Never mind the fact that he hadn’t drunk a drop of alcohol the day before, despite being sorely tempted. Now he’s lying in bed listening to Colin’s message for the third—fourth?—time, his head once more splitting in pain and his stomach feeling as if he’s just ridden a rollercoaster. 

No, fuck this. Fuck everything. He’s had enough. Whoever or whatever is repeatedly torturing him with this cursed day, he isn’t playing ball anymore. Today he’s going to stay home and do absolutely nothing and then maybe, just maybe, whoever’s in charge will see there’s no more fun to be had.

His cell is once again sitting innocently beside his bed. Ryan drags his arm out from underneath the sheet and grabs it to turn it off, unable to avoid seeing confirmation of the date just as the lit screen shuts down: April 23rd, 2001.

~*~*~

 

A pounding noise rudely wakes him some time later, sending his thoughts into a dizzying spiral of pain and confusion. It takes a few moments to realize that it’s someone at his front door. He stays where he is for a while, muffling the sound with his pillow, but any thoughts of ignoring it until it stops are ruthlessly quashed by the sheer tenacity of whoever is on his doorstep. Ryan tosses the pillow aside, preparing to get up and commit murder, wishing he had a shotgun in the house, and only then hears the voice accompanying the thuds.

“Ryan? You still alive?”

Of course, it would be Jeff fucking Davis. Ryan still wishes he had a gun.

He glances at his watch as he staggers out of the bedroom, pulling on the first shirt to hand. It’s almost eleven; Jeff must have got stuck in traffic on the way over. The thought gives him a vindictive kind of pleasure. Jeff barely has time to open his mouth when Ryan eventually opens the door, after having taken a few minutes to take yet another dose of painkillers.

“ _Yes_ , it’s almost eleven o’clock. _Yes_ , I was supposed to meet you at the club at ten. _No_ , I didn’t forget. And, _yes_ , I know I’m a terrible liar when I’m hung over. Am I forgetting anything?”

Jeff blinks at him. In other circumstances he’d look almost comical, standing on Ryan’s doorstep in his ridiculous golf clothes, hand still frozen in mid-knock. 

“Jesus, dude, you look like hell.”

Despite his best efforts, Ryan’s bad mood eases a touch. He sighs and turns to head back to the kitchen. “Come in.”

“I take it the bet’s off then,” Jeff says, following Ryan inside and closing the door.

Without a word, Ryan slips a hundred dollars from his wallet and tosses it across the counter.

“Hey, you don’t have to—“

Ryan holds up a hand. “Just trust me on this, you’d win. Coffee?”

“Uh, sure.” Jeff settles on a seat by the counter and, for want of anything better to do while Ryan starts up the machine, glances around the not-so-tidy kitchen. “So, too much alcohol last night, huh?”

Despite his still considerable pain and discomfort, Ryan almost laughs. “Actually I didn’t drink enough.”

Jeff’s silent for a while after that, leaving only the sound of the coffee brewing and Ryan collecting a couple of mugs from the cupboard. Then he clears his throat and softly, hesitantly asks, “You want to talk about it?”

“About what?”

“Colin.”

There it is again. Ryan wonders when the name will stop driving that knife further into his gut.

“He was looking for you last night.”

Ryan nods. “Yeah. I know.” And just like that, all of the fight goes out of him. He sets the mugs on the counter and sinks onto the seat opposite Jeff. “… I avoided him.”

Jeff’s brow instantly furrows. “Why?”

“Because I’m a coward,” Ryan says, and there’s an odd sense of freedom in finally admitting those words. “I didn’t want to hear whatever he had to say. Whose Line is done, we’re going our separate ways. That’s it.”

“That’s not it, Ryan,” Jeff says, and his tone is more earnest than Ryan has ever heard it before. It unsettles him further. “Whose Line may be done, but what you two have…” Jeff shakes his head and looks down, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. “You shouldn’t let go of that. I mean, I know you both have wives, kids… it’s complicated. I get that. But could you really go back to them and be happy?”

Ryan smiles faintly, says, “Pat left me three months ago,” and gets up to grab the coffee pot.

“Wait, what? She left you? Does Colin know that?”

“No, and I don’t want him to. He still has his marriage.”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Jeff says, shaking his head again as Ryan fills the two mugs. “You know that, right? You haven’t even talked to him. What if—“

“There are no what ifs, Jeff,” Ryan cuts across him harshly, because he can’t afford to take even one step down that line of thinking. “Nothing about this could work out. Whatever we had, it ends here.”

“Only because you won’t fight for it.”

Ryan can’t listen. He tosses the creamer at Jeff, leaving his own black, and turns to go back towards his room, mug in hand. As he does so, the mug catches the pot and hot coffee splashes across the arm of his shirt; the same arm; the same shirt. Ryan sighs heavily and then continues on his way. “I’m going to take a shower. You can let yourself out.”

 

He stays in the shower for longer than he needs to, eyes closed, face tilted up into the hot spray as if it’ll wash away all of his problems. When he’s finished, Jeff is gone and the message light is blinking on his phone indicating two missed calls. Ready for it, Ryan deletes the message from Greg on the first word. The second message turns out to be his agent chewing him out for missing his appointment. Ryan calls him back and recites, from memory, everything coming up on his schedule, which leaves Steve bemused but temporarily placated.

Any amount of satisfaction Ryan gains from this is quickly wiped away by the note left on his kitchen counter, containing two words in Jeff’s messy scrawl.

_Call him._

Ryan scowls and screws it up, tossing it into the trash. Jeff doesn’t get it. 

~*~*~

 

With the luxury of a lazy lunch and an afternoon not spent in traffic, Ryan almost almost forgets that he’s stuck in a time warp. He takes advantage of the pool to avoid the heat, now pushing into the high eighties, and does a few gentle laps—something that his doctor has told him will benefit his bad back but he never seems to have time for. It’s certainly relaxing, letting the water take his weight, doing just enough to maintain momentum. 

When his muscles begin to tire, Ryan swims to the side and takes a moment to rest, anchoring himself with his arms while allowing the rest of his body to go limp in the water. It’s obvious he doesn’t do this enough as he’s far too out of breath, his chest touching the cool tiles with every deep inhale. He rests his head on his arms, face turned to the side, and closes his eyes, giving himself up to his other senses—the feel of the sun warm on his face, the drips travelling down his skin like the skim of soft fingers, the caress of a gentle breeze. 

_Ryan hums as dexterous hands smooth down the planes of his back and up again, beginning gentle circular motions across his shoulders, a warm weight settling across his thighs._

_“Your muscles are so tense,” Colin murmurs disapprovingly. “Your knots have knots.”_

_Ryan tries to open his eyes but his lids are too heavy, his whole body sinking into relaxation under the delicious pressure being exerted. “Comes with the job,” he mumbles through an exhale. “And being old, but you know all about that.”_

_The fingers momentarily dig deeper, straying into discomfort, but the only result is the blossoming of a playful lop-sided grin on Ryan’s face._

_“It’s not wise to insult the man who currently has absolute power over your body,” Colin chastises. Ryan hears the good-natured amusement in his voice, though, and he can picture the exact smile that goes with it._

_Then, in contrast to the strong hands firmly kneading his muscles, he feels the feather-light touch of Colin’s lips to his neck, his cheek. Ryan tries to turn his head to chase them but his body feels leaden, which forces his eyes open, his sudden need to reach Colin unbearable._

Ryan blinks hard, screwing his eyes up against the bright glare from the sun. He becomes aware of the edge of the pool painfully digging into his ribs, the partial loss of feeling in his arms from where his head is resting, but most of all, the crushing certainty that Colin isn’t there.

~*~*~

 

At seven thirty that evening Ryan’s stuck in traffic again. He could be at home on his couch catching up on the sports, he thinks with a longing sigh, shifting around in his seat to get comfortable. He could be wearing something a lot more comfortable than a fucking suit. But that would invite another visit from Wayne, and Ryan has decided that the party is the lesser of two evils. With any luck he can just make an appearance to prove he’s alive and then escape early. If he ever gets there, that is.

The sun is just setting, long golden streaks of light reaching between buildings and high-rises to paint cars in its path while the rest sit in the growing darkness. Ryan has crept perhaps a hundred yards in the past thirty minutes and still isn’t close to touching the nearest. He flicks his headlights on and they illuminate the bumper of the car in front, including the prominent sticker that reads _I still miss my ex-wife but my aim is improving._

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Ryan doesn’t even get a chance to look for the red convertible before he hears the shout and the bike roars past his car in a blur of speed. He sinks heavily back against his seat and his gaze slides inexorably towards the car radio. After regarding it suspiciously for the best part of a minute, he jabs the button quickly as if it might bite. 

Michael Bolton gets perhaps two notes out before the radio is switched off again.

~*~*~

 

“You came!”

“Yeah,” Ryan says, taking a glass of champagne of the nearest tray—he’ll be getting a hangover again the next morning either way so he may as well let alcohol smooth the passage of his evening. “Sorry I’m late; traffic was a bitch.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Drew says easily. “I’m just glad you made it. I wasn’t sure—“

“So who else is here?” Ryan asks, cutting him off before he can go any further down that road. 

It’s not exactly subtle but it works well enough and Drew launches into a list of celebrities, most of which Ryan already knew were there or couldn’t care less about. Still, he’s happy to stand and listen, nodding occasionally, drinking his champagne, while silently counting down the minutes until he can get the hell out of there. It beats the alternative.

~*~*~

 

For a few glorious minutes, Ryan actually thinks he’ll make it. An hour or so later, in trying to avoid people who he knows will ask questions, he comes across a side-door that opens into an alley adjacent to the building. His relief has him instantly reaching for his cigarettes the moment the door has closed, but no sooner has he lit up than the door opens again and Ryan is under no illusions as to who it’ll be. This day is cursed, after all.

“Hey, mind if I bum one of those? I’m dying.”

Ryan turns and wordlessly offers Drew the pack and his lighter, which Drew takes with a brief but grateful smile and once again the walls flare orange with a bright but fleeting flame. 

They’re both several drags in before Drew breaks the silence. “So how’re you doing?”

“I’m good,” Ryan says flatly, unwilling to offer anything more, anything close to resembling the truth. He hears Drew shift his feet beside him but keeps his gaze fixed on the wall opposite.

“I heard about Pat. I’m sorry.”

Ryan purses his lips around his cigarette. In the next version of this day, he’ll know better than to talk to Jeff fucking Davis. “Well, don’t be. Life screws all of us over in the end.”

“Maybe,” Drew replies tentatively, “or maybe it’s working things out. Have you—“

“No, I haven’t told him,” Ryan says in the same toneless voice, knowing exactly where Drew’s going and determined to head him off. “And I don’t plan to. He’s on his way back to Canada and out of my life.” He can feel Drew staring at him but doesn’t react except to take another drag.

“Just like that,” Drew says with a note of incredulity in his voice. 

It’s this that makes Ryan finally turn to look at him. Clearly he’s not going to get out of this conversation so he may as well get it over and done with quickly.

“The only strand holding us together was the show, Drew, and we both know Whose Line is finished. It’s time to let go.”

“Do you _want_ to let go?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want!” Ryan explodes, all of the anger that has been simmering under his calm façade rising up to burn white-hot through his veins. “Don’t you get it? We live separate lives now, in separate countries. This isn’t a fairy tale, Drew. There are no happy endings. _This_ , this is self-preservation, plain and simple.”

“But you never gave him a _choice_ , Ryan,” Drew says fiercely, standing his ground. “You shut him out and pushed him away. You pushed _everyone_ away. Christ, we’ve all watched you slowly burn yourself out over the last year but no one has felt it more keenly than Colin. Do you have any idea how hard he’s tried to help you? To be there for you? The shadow of this has covered both of you; the dullness in your eyes has been reflected in his. But still he never gave up.” 

“I didn’t—“

“And now, _now_ you’ve thrown that away too. Well, congratulations.” Drew shakes his head, tosses the butt of his cigarette onto the ground, and when he glances back up at Ryan it’s with that same look of pity that’s altogether harder to stomach. 

“You may think that’s self-preservation, buddy, but it’s really not. It’s something far worse. And, trust me, it’s the biggest mistake you’ll ever make.”

Ryan is left alone in the dark as Drew rejoins the celebrations inside, his sudden anger all but fizzled out. He goes to take a drag of his cigarette but pauses before it touches his lips, abruptly throwing it away a moment later. He sinks back against the wall, welcoming the chill that creeps through his jacket and shirt. At the end of the alley, LA continues to pulse, a moving snapshot of sound and light that will gradually slow through the final hours of this day, oblivious to the repetition, to the utter futility of it all. 

There’s still a bottle of pills in Ryan’s pocket. He wonders what would happen if he took them all—whether that would end it or if he’d just go from the morgue to his bed the next morning like a fucking reset button. Part of him wishes he could find out, if only to stop the echo of Drew’s words from playing in his head. For the dawn may yet again wipe this day from existence, but Ryan knows those words will stay with him past tonight; perhaps until his very last breath.

~*~*~

 

Ryan sinks wearily into bed that night but cannot sleep. He watches the minutes tick away in glowing numbers on the bedside clock, drawing him ever closer to a tomorrow he may never see. And what can he do but live this day over? Watch the same things happen again and again. The ultimate punishment. And he deserves it, deserves it all, because Drew was right—about everything.

_Life screws all of us over in the end._

_Maybe… or maybe it’s working things out._

Ryan shifts onto his back and stares upwards into darkness, his heart beating faster. Drew was right. Not a punishment; a lifeline. And this time when morning comes, Ryan will do what he should have done to begin with—what he should have done all along. 

For the first time since this whole nightmare began, Ryan drifts off to sleep praying that tomorrow _won’t_ come. Because maybe, just maybe, he can still fix this.

~*~*~

 

He wakes up disorientated, hearing the faint sound of Colin’s voice through the pounding in his head. _Colin_. Ryan forces his eyes open and looks blearily around him, trying to locate the source of Colin’s voice. It’s then that the stray pieces of his memory finally slot together. 

He throws himself out of bed, spots dancing across the edges of his vision as he forces his body to move towards the door. When he gets there he hears Colin’s voice more clearly.

“I wish you were there.”

Ryan speeds up, ignoring the splitting pain in his head, the warning clench of his stomach; he has to get to the phone before—

“Goodbye, Ryan.”

His fingers close around the receiver and he yanks it up to his ear. “I’m here! Col? Shit!” 

Flinging the receiver back down, not caring that it bounces off the table and under the couch where he’s bound to forget it later, Ryan rushes back to his room and grabs the nearest set of clothes. He knows the chances of getting to LAX before Colin leaves are slim, especially in morning traffic, but he has to try. He might not get another chance. In fact there’s something deep down, something utterly unexplainable, telling him that Colin will remain out of his reach the moment he steps on that plane.

A glass of water and a couple of painkillers later, Ryan’s driving south on the 405 as fast as he can without breaking the limit or ramming other cars out of the way. The last thing he needs now is a cop pulling him over—especially since he’d probably get a DUI into the bargain. 

As he gets closer to the airport, the traffic starts to bunch up even further and Ryan taps his fingers against the wheel in a frenetic beat of frustration. Never in his life has he wanted to get to an airport so badly, even if his body isn’t listening—his palms have already started to sweat at the sound of jet engines growing ever louder.

Ryan glances down at his watch again as he slows from a crawl to a stop. 7:45am. There are cars on all sides of him, hemming him in. Some are honking their horns, for all the good it will do. Everyone has some place to be. Part of Ryan wants to get out of his car and run, just to be doing something. Staying still, watching the minutes tick away, is almost unbearable. His mind supplies a mental image of Colin queuing up at the gate with his carry-on, boarding pass in hand, and Ryan’s hands clench around the steering wheel, turning his knuckles white.

Seven minutes. Eight. The traffic starts to move slowly. Ryan wants to shout at them to hurry up, instead chanting a steady mantra under his breath. “Come on, come on, come on…”

Finally reaching his exit, he tears off with a screech of tires and speeds down towards Sepulveda Boulevard. Nearly there.

~*~*~

 

It’s not until Ryan passes through the doors into the terminal that the cold sweat starts on the back of his neck and spreads slowly downwards. The knowledge that he isn’t actually getting on the plane does little to calm his nerves as he hurries towards the ticket desk, glancing up at the departure board as he does so. His pulse jumps when he sees the flight to Toronto is listed as boarding.

There’s a long line of people waiting. Ryan stands restlessly at the back of the queue, looking over the heads of everyone in front of him to the petite woman standing behind the counter. She’s in full flow, no doubt going through every single step of the check-list that she learnt in customer service training, a smile plastered on her overly made-up face. Just as Ryan’s thinking that he has no chance of making it, she looks up and catches sight of him and there’s a spark of recognition that turns her smile noticeably warmer. Ryan sighs inwardly and smiles back, moving forwards. He’d promised himself that he’d never do this.

It takes surprisingly little—a heartfelt plea, a string of apologies and a couple of autographs—and he has his boarding pass; a boarding pass that will get him through security and into the departure lounge. The line at security is, mercifully, much shorter. Ryan literally throws everything in his pockets into the dish, metal or not, and dashes through, weaving in and out of the many people on the other side while forcefully repressing the urge to throw up.

It seems to take forever but he finally sees the right gate ahead of him. There’s a queue of people there, handing over their boarding passes, and third in line… Ryan’s heart flips at the unmistakable profile.

“Colin! Col!” 

People all around Ryan turn and stare at him as he runs full pelt, but Colin remains oblivious. He’s almost at the gate and Ryan’s too far away. 

_“Colin!”_

Right on the threshold, Colin turns, frowning, his gaze sweeping the area. Ryan barges through a group of people, knocking luggage everywhere, but their curses fall on deaf ears because at that moment Colin’s eyes lock with his and widen in surprise. 

Ryan is past caring that his lungs are burning with the effort of running, past caring that his head is pounding so hard that his vision is graying around the edges; he’s so close. Giving it everything he’s got left, he pushes himself to keep going those last few meters but his body has had enough and he staggers, flinging out a hand against the floor that will surely come up to meet him at any second. 

Then there’s a strong hand at his elbow and Ryan doesn’t need to look up to know who it belongs to.

“Ryan? What—“

“Stay,” Ryan heaves, forcing his head upwards to look into Colin’s eyes, which are filled with concern, confusion, and a dozen other things besides. “I’m sorry… sorry for everything. I know I’m an asshole. I never—“ He shakes his head, breathing deeply. The spots masking his vision are slowly clearing. “Just don’t get on that flight, Col. Please. Give me a few more days.”

Ryan knows he’s causing a scene, knows without having to look that they’re surrounded by a crowd of curious onlookers, some probably taking pictures, but he’s never cared about anything less in his life. What’s left of his life—his present and future—is anchored to the man in front of him, staring down into his very soul.

“Excuse me. Sir?” It’s the woman on the gate, crashing into the moment with a tone of brisk efficiency. “Boarding is closing. You need to—“

“I’ll stay,” Colin states, and Ryan’s not sure who he’s talking to but it really doesn’t matter. He’s struck by a tide of gratitude and love and blessed _relief_ , so strong it’s all he can do to keep from sweeping Colin close and giving the crowd a show they’ll never forget.

“Come on,” Colin says more quietly, steering Ryan away from the gate and the growing crowd, “let’s get out of here.” 

His hand remains, a reassuring warmth on Ryan’s arm as they navigate their way through the throng of outgoing travelers. Ryan’s mind is full of everything he needs to say, but not now; not yet. There’ll be plenty of time to talk later. He’s got his second chance.

And when a hurrying businessman almost collides with them a moment later, his coffee spilling out of its Styrofoam cup, and Colin deftly pulls Ryan out of its path, Ryan stares down at his pristine white shirt. Then, for the first time on this accursed day, his smile is true.

~*~*~

 

A phone is ringing somewhere nearby, wrenching Ryan out of a dream he’d like to hold onto a little longer. As the dream fades and reality sharpens, Ryan’s heart plummets.

No. Not again.

He wearily runs a hand across his closed eyes, and only then registers the fact that his head is not splitting apart in pain. The next thing his brain registers, with an odd swooping sensation in his stomach that has nothing to do with too much alcohol the night before, is the warmth pressed against his side. Slowly, fearing it might be a cruel trick, Ryan opens his eyes and turns his head on the pillow. The sight that greets him is far sweeter than any dream and, what’s more, it is irrefutable proof that it is indeed a new day. 

The phone has stopped ringing, the silence filled only with Colin’s soft, slow breaths puffing across Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan shifts closer just as his cell phone beeps to indicate a message, loudly enough to cause the hint of a frown to cross Colin’s face. Unwilling to risk another call, Ryan grabs it from the bedside table, inwardly rejoicing at the date displayed on the screen—April 22, 2001.

There are two messages. The first is from Greg, received at 8:42am.

_Hey, Clark Kent, what’s this on the news about you apprehending a purse snatcher on the freeway yesterday?_

Ryan's mouth curls upwards into a smirk as he relives the moment when he’d opened his car door right into the path of that very same motorbike, while they’d been stuck in traffic on the way back from the airport. Watching the thief catapulted over the top of the door and onto the hard concrete had been immensely satisfying, not to mention the hundred bucks reward that was pressed into his hand upon returning the purse and Colin’s somewhat astonished expression when Ryan had returned to the car.

The second, more recent message is from Jeff, left only a moment ago at 9:23am.

_Hey, want to play that round of golf this morning since you bailed on me yesterday? Remember there’s a hundred bucks on the line._

Glancing across at Colin’s peaceful face, now lit by bright rays of morning sun creeping across the bed, Ryan taps out a quick response. _Not today, buddy. I won something better._

Ryan sets the phone aside and settles back down, his fingers sliding along the length of Colin’s arm to rest on a smooth hip, his lips ghosting across a relaxed brow. For now the talking is done, left behind in a new yesterday—a long, overly-complicated conversation that had boiled down to _we'll figure something out._

And that was enough. For both of them. 

 

End.


End file.
